


what the night is made of

by orphan_account



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Claudeleth Week (Fire Emblem), M/M, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:08:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25392121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Say, Teach. Can I show you something?”“What is it, Claude?”“Have you ever seen a shooting star?”~day 1 of claudeleth week: stars
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	what the night is made of

**Author's Note:**

> first time participating in a challenge and i’m honestly excited af
> 
> written for day 1 of claudeleth week 2020: stars

“Say, Teach. Can I show you something?”

“What is it, Claude?”

“Have you ever seen a shooting star?”

* * *

  
Claude doesn’t believe in wishes. 

What he believes in is the grit of ambition. War or not, there’s always work to be done and secrets to unearth. Forget the preaching and praying to a higher power. Why trust a horse to gallop when you could pull the reins yourself? 

That being said, it’s a pretty night out. It’d be a shame near sinful to keep it all for himself.

So he takes Byleth’s hand. 

“C’mon,” he says with a wink. 

Mother Nature greets him like the land he belonged to. The smell of Earth in his nostrils, branches laid bare. It reminds him of walls made of clay and wyverns in the clouds. The people of Almyra don't just lounge about on golden coins. They’re molded from the dirt they tilled, the sweat and the tears. 

Claude reminisces on it as much as he searches for a resemblance. It’s calmer in Fódlan. The trees hibernate around this time of year. There’s grass under his boots and a sharpness on the tongue. Stray ashes? Lorenz’s sense of humor? Who knows, but it’s comforting. He sinks in, wraps it around him like a woolen tunic. It’s not just the inner nooks of Garreg Mach he’s familiar with, it’s the outskirts too. Two adjacent rooms of the same little home.

Oh, and Teach. He’s so quiet you forget that he’s there. But Claude’s heart is fickle: more than happy (devilish, perhaps) to leave reminders. Loud ones, the kinds that stick to the walls of your brain.

He looks back. Byleth is looking ahead, not a freckle of surprise. Is he hiding his emotions or trying to find them?

“Ever gone to the outskirts, Teach?”

“I did” —of course he has— “about a month ago.”

“What was the occasion?” Claude says like he doesn’t already know the answer.

“Leonie asked to train.” Next on the list: “Ignatz wanted inspiration for his art.” And who could forget, “Lysithea wished for a fern she read about.”

His turn. “And what about you, Teach?”

“Me?” as if he knows his name the least.

“Surely you’ve come here on your own volition?” Claude says. “For training? To observe the wildlife? Or maybe to escape the good old Deer of Golden?”

Byleth slides his gaze to the trees, picking out the life among the dead. It’s a busy night; moon is showing off her stuff. There’s enough light for Claude to see easily. Glass over his eyes, steel around his mouth. 

He nudges through the bars, “I haven’t.”

“You haven’t what?” Claude prompts.

There’s a strange air when it comes to Teach. His mouth is shut, but Claude hears him talking, knows the micro-movements. A slight nod implies satisfaction. A raised brow is a reprimand. A tilting of the chin means _Claude, stop being a fool, get your act together_.

“I haven’t,” he says, “come here. For myself.”

“Nothing interesting?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

The drawbridge is closed, Claude concedes, but the attempts are getting easier now with the Golden Deer around. They’re the family Teach needs, the reason he no longer cries at Jeralt’s gravestone. But old habits don’t just die hard. They claw and scream and drag you under the trenches. Teach was a man of secrets. A man of secrets he will remain.

Claude considers his options, then gives a smile. “Let’s change that, then. Tonight.”

He’s setting off before Byleth can object. He hears him asking anyway, softly, under his breath: _But why? Where are you taking me?_

“A bit further than normal,” Claude says, as comfortingly as he can manage. “But I guarantee it’s worth the payoff. It’ll only cost a little trust.”

He doesn’t mention that he’s only gone a total of four times. The first was a bit embarrassing, back when he’d first met Edelgard and she first called him a filthy mongrel. Being half-blooded is still a sore spot, joking or not. He’d resorted to the usual cure: wind to dry the tears, space to block the crying. But that was how he found it. Silver lining, right?

Second: Teach picks the Golden Deer. Nothing more to say.

The third—he’d heard from Seteth that the Alliance was fumbling and Count Gloucester was the cause. He'd gone to the library to gather his thoughts. Found said library to be a shouting match between Dorothea and Ferdinand, and decided to finish his scheming in the outskirts.

The most recent was two months ago. Edelgard had set the continent aflame. Dimitri was dead. The walls of the monastery were thick with regret. But his spot had still been there, intact, with a view that reminded him the world keeps turning through all the suffering and despair.

He knows the path. The dirt is scuffed—Adrestian knights could be blamed for that—so it’s hard to follow. The only marks are the thinning trees, the scattering of animals. They’re afraid of how the land opens up to make space for the ridge. 

Not far to go. He spares a glance back. Byleth seems particularly interested in a spot on his shoe.

“Teach?” Claude says.

There goes the spot. “Yes?”

“Everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine.”

Claude’s smile is frozen in place. “You seem to be lost.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

It’s what Teach does best: apologize. Claude wonders how the Ashen Demon, extension of sword and collector of blood, could belong to the same face.

“What are you sorry for?” he says.

He’s searching in the grass. “I…” he begins, then dips with uncertainty, “I know I’m not...”

“Well, _I,_ for one, don’t think mercenaries are unattractive,” Claude quips.

 _There’s_ a smile. “Thank you,” he slides past, “But I’m aware I can be…”

Ruthless? Demanding? A hurricane that’s torn Claude akilter since he rose from the grave?

“Cold.”

Funny, considering how warm Claude felt. “Is that all?” he says. “It adds to your charm, my friend. Tell me, how long have we known each other?”

“Do we count the gap?”

“We always count the gap.”

He’s ticking up the numbers. “Six years?” like it's a barter at the marketplace.

“And have I strayed from your side even once?”

“Well…”

“Sparring doesn’t count,” he adds.

It’s borderline accusatory when Byleth says, “You always preferred teaming with Leonie.”

“She needed the help.”

“True. It was quite a challenge.”

“For us, perhaps. You carved us down like a leg of boar.” Claude thinks he knows the answer to his next question, considers whether to ask it, the indecision a thorn in his side. He asks anyway: “Do you miss it? The old days?”

“The old days?” he repeats.

“When we were students.” Innocent, carefree, a sky to themselves without having to share with unseeing eyes. “When we were younger,” he says.

He breaks from the field to look at Byleth. There’s a crease between his brows like he’s deep in thought. Claude knows the habit, seen it glaring down on tactics, battlefields, Hilda’s questionable cooking. It’s the mark of genuineness that certifies truth.

Byleth says, “It’s not the days I miss.”

Well, darn. Hurricane indeed. 

“I get you,” Claude says in agreement. “It’s a lot emptier now, isn't it?”

Byleth doesn’t respond. Claude understands why. It’s not that he doesn’t have emotions; more like Teach prefers to encase himself in a bottle. Claude can see the storm brewing. No matter how it rages and thunders and weeps to cry at their father’s grave, the contents are held by deceptively potent glass.

It’s why Claude found him fascinating, then and now. Secrets are interesting, but they’re common. Wrap them up in a guy like Teach, selfless and unbreakable, and they’re bound to kickstart Claude’s heart with a beat. He’s as good of a leader as he is a warrior, a professor, a listener. How could Claude _not_ be interested?

This was how he learned, through watching and confessions and stolen little moments, that there’s little possibility, by Seiros or Nemesis, that Teach puts himself first. Why his victims cry before he does. Why he takes his students by the hand. Why he travels far for any name that isn’t Byleth.

He hides his pain. That’s what Claude assumes, at least; he can’t tell the difference.

What he _can_ tell is when Byleth gets surprised. Like when Claude slides his hand in, fingers locking into place. “I think,” he says softly, “that this night should be yours for a change. What do you say?”

Search number two. “Mine?”

“You deserve something to your name, my friend.” Claude squeezes, gently, and he knows that Teach would squeeze back if he could. “And I have just the thing.”

* * *

Either the spot was farther than he remembered or Claude was aging in the knees.

When he arrives he first scouts the area. The trees are older, but they’re there, which is surprising considering the armies and bandits and legends of dragons with hellfire for breathing patterns.

He can't find any wildlife. Maybe Marianne stole the birds for company.

And the rocks are in shape, probably because they’re rocks. Perfect.

“This way,” he says to Byleth, tugging him along. 

Claude goes up first. He steps on a large one, uses it to push himself up and grab onto another. It's not so much a mountain, though it tired Claude appropriately. He likened the pile of stones to a ridge that jutted to escape the clutches of the ground. Low enough to scale, high enough to dwindle the trees. Oceans of grass are swarming around the base, but it’s holding up nice and healthy.

He hears a grunt and sees Byleth teetering. He holds out his hand. “Need a little assistance, Teach?”

Why does he even bother? “No.”

So Claude redirects his chuckle and continues. Old habits start to kick in—when you’re dodging blades and lightning, you’re forced to learn the grooves of your environment—and Claude soon falls into element. He's been this way before. He's grabbed that outermost ledge. He pulls himself over the top, heavy breathing be damned.

“C’mon,” he calls down below. “You’ve climbed worse, haven’t you?”

It works to spur Byleth through the final push. He hauls himself over with the grace of broken limbs. 

“That,” he pushes out his lungs, “was tougher than expected.”

“Hey, I offered help.”

“It’s better that you focused on yourself.”

"I had a feeling you'd say that.” He helps him to his feet. “Almost there. Promise.”

They walk along the stone platform, Claude supporting Byleth, Byleth supporting his pride. The steps are measured. Take your time, let’s enjoy it, hey Teach, you ever consider scaling a mountain? Until Claude realizes the next step would make them plummet and crack his skull in two.

Then again, so could Byleth with a single smack, and he’s never complained about the latter.

Speaking of Teach, he’s gone silent again. His cape is flying along with his hair.

“What do you think, my friend?” Claude raises a hand to the heavens. “Isn’t she a wonder?”

If asked to answer, Claude would suggest a _definitely._ The Goddess must be generous. He saw stars bunched together, dancing, flying apart, leaving little space for the moon. Stronger than usual, like they’re whispering a heartfelt message. _This is for you,_ they said. _You’ve earned it._

But that’s just Claude, not Byleth's interpretation. His face is still Byleth’s.

“Teach?” Claude nudges. “Everything okay?”

He’s silent, which isn’t unusual, and completely immobile, which isn’t _too_ unusual. Claude wants to pick apart the pursed lips, the calmed eyes. He can’t find a foothold. All there is to Byleth is all Claude sees before him.

“Where is it?” he suddenly asks.

“What are you looking for?” Claude asks back.

“I recall you mentioning something about a shooting star,” he says. He vaguely gestures to the west. “Is...Is that it?”

Claude can’t pick out the lucky winner without, “Which one are you pointing to?”

“I’m…” before he says, “I’m not sure.”

That’s when Claude catches on. He hides the shake of his head. _Damn_ , he thinks. _You're slower_ _than usual, Riegan_ _._

“Teach,” he says instead, “can you tell me what they look like?”

He asks without judgment, as friendly as can be. It has the opposite effect on Byleth. He curls inward to block out the wind.

“No,” he mumbles. “I can't.”

Claude pauses. He doesn't answer.

His hand goes into his pocket. He points out with his right. “Look, Teach!” he says, as far out as he can. “That one, over there—that might be it!”

Technically, he’s not lying. All stars are moving—they spin slowly, watching Fódlan tear apart, content to witness their suffering. There’s one that’s moving faster tonight, not quite _shooting_ as it is _falling_. Thankfully the matching white trail is enough to convince Byleth.

“I see it, Claude.” Is that _giddiness?_ That’s the greatest discovery Claude could put to memory. 

Let’s ride this wave to shore. “What do you see? Describe it for me.”

“It’s wavering. Or, I believe that it is? I’m not sure, it’s hard to tell. The way it plummets, it's like—like it’s running from its brethren. But it's leaves a path to be found.”

Claude chuckles. It's hard to resist the notion: when Teach shows real emotion, happy or sad, it hits twice as hard.

He says, “There’s a legend, Teach.” He gathers his thoughts, checks down the list, and continues. “They say that if you catch a falling star, you have to name it. That’s how it belongs to you. Then, your wish will have a greater chance of reaching the Goddess’ ears.”

Without missing a beat: “What about the others who see it as well?”

“That’s why you have to move quickly,” Claude answers with _very legitimate_ certainty. “Here’s a trick I heard: treat it like a damsel. Compliment it, and it’ll gravitate to your niceties.”

“Truly?”

“Give it a shot.”

It's an easy thing to ask. Whenever Byleth saw Raphael, he would compliment his muscles (possibly a lie). With Hilda, the color of her hair (definitely a lie). With Claude, it's better left unsaid.

He doesn’t know what to say now.

“It...it shines like the sun," he says slowly. "It’s smaller, but it's just as bright. I would like to continue watching it.”

“Go on, what else?”

“I think...it’s beautiful, Claude. Like...like no star I’ve ever seen.”

That's when Claude interrupts.

“No, Teach,” he says, “you certainly aren’t.”

That’s when Byleth absorbs his words. Turns his head. Notices Hilda's mirror in Claude's palm. He reacts like it’s the first time he’s seen the green hair, the eyes that could charm the deadliest of snakes. (Explains why Dimitri used to label him as one.)

Not important, Claude thinks. What _is_ important is Teach. He’s confused, then surprised, then somewhere between confused and surprised (Claude classifies it under _endearing),_ before he’s using his words: “Claude, what is this?”

“My favorite star,” he says. And he can’t hold back his smile, so he lets it loose. “But it looks like it already has a name.”

“Claude…”

“Guess I’m out of luck.” He takes a step closer. Did the rock just tremble? He thinks he hears Teach’s breath, maybe his own. Hard to tell. “Though, I recall there being another name, one more unique. I’m sure you’ve _never_ heard of it before.”

Definitely his own. “What is it?"

“Can I confess something, Teach?”

“I—yes, certainly.”

“I don’t look for shooting stars.” He pockets the mirror, reaches out his hand. “They’re nice to watch, but they’re only temporary.” It finds its place. Teach has slender fingers, he realizes. “And I don’t need to, for I have something else to guide me. It’s always by my side.”

“Claude,” for the second time. It’s what's hidden, warm and unspoken, that Claude hears the loudest.

So he speaks his end instead. “My Fell Star,” he breathes out, into the vespertine.

Byleth seems to hear it. He seems to forget the wind and the moon and the world that’s ripping at the seams. He sees Claude, and Claude sees the resemblance, can feel them breathing down his neck for stealing one of their own.

Claude doesn’t think about it. What he thinks about is this: the gulf between them. Then, the lack of distance.

Then, the softness of his lips.

Who knew stars could taste so sweet?

Claude takes a moment before pulling back. The kiss was gentle, and Teach had done as Teach wont to do: return it just as softly.

He traces a thumb down Byleth’s cheek. There’s green above, the storm in the distance. What Claude sees is a stirring of waves, smooth and peaceful, glimmering with the shine of an oversaturated night sky.

He only needs one. “Teach,” he says.

“Yes?”

“Did you enjoy the view? Enjoy tonight?”

And Byleth doesn’t answer immediately. He’s watching Claude too, maybe the scenery behind him. Maybe he’s remembering the day he fell and restored Claude’s belief in the good and the holy. The many times he held Claude’s hand. The time he traveled far to stare at a canvas more foreign than familiar.

This is what Claude assumes. What Byleth does is different.

Claude feels the following things: surprise overtaking him, lips on his, gloved hands on his shoulders, a word traveling silently between: _Yes._

“Thank you, Claude," as he pulls back. And Claude remembers that they’re in nature, the world’s still burning, and that he’s probably a terrible leader because he doesn’t really give a damn at that moment. “For tonight. It was...beautiful.”

Claude tries to contain the burst in his chest. He channels it into the squeeze of his hand. “It was for you, my friend.”

“No,” he says.

Claude remembers something else: why he doesn’t need a wish. Why Garreg Mach could topple and Fódlan could burn until the air and the ash were indistinguishable from one another, and he’d still have his faith.

It speaks with a smile: “It was for us.”


End file.
